


It's Cold Outside

by Bonnaby



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Awkward Silences, Christmas, Christmas Music, Destiel - Freeform, Drabble, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy Holiday Moments, Gen, Guardian Angels, Head Massage, In Which the Impala Witnesses Another Dean Moment, M/M, My First Fanfic, PWP, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-24
Updated: 2012-12-24
Packaged: 2017-11-22 07:50:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bonnaby/pseuds/Bonnaby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I don't know about you Baby, but it's cold outside.</p><p>--- One year after A Very Supernatural Christmas, the holidays are upon the Winchesters again. But Sam's in a coma after having his soul returned to him and Dean's disappeared. The only person available to check on him? A certain angel of Heaven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Cold Outside

**Author's Note:**

  * For [riseofthefallenone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riseofthefallenone/gifts).



> Thank you for taking the time to read. This is my first SPN fic and probably not the last. This takes place midway into Season Six and contains a few spoilers. I wish to thank riseofthefallenone and her work Out of the Deep. Her amazing fic is the inspiration that led to this bit of Christmas fluff. I didn't have time to find a Beta, so I apologize for any grammatical or spelling mishaps. Happy Holidays!

"I don't know about you Baby, but it's cold outside."  
  
Winter was a brisk, grey shell over a mid-sized city sky scape. It was December and cold, cold enough that there weren't any children playing in the park across the road. There were no buildings for several miles in every direction and the ones stuttering the horizon were almost obscured by thick, snow-bearing clouds. The air was heavy and sullen, silent except when the wind rattled the empty, brittle trees. A thin layer of snow lay on the ground from a recent storm and in it sat a single trail left by someone wearing thick-soled boots.  
  
He knew without looking who they belonged to. He'd watched their making some two or three hours ago. Of course, the person responsible for them had no idea of his nearness. As an angel, he could move undetected through crowds. Invisible, intangible, inexplicable:  more or less a roaming spirit. A holy spirit in exactitude.  
  
The settled snow did not crunch beneath his shoes as he moved away from the treeline. Several yards from his post was an old black car parked beneath an equally-old oak. Their ages were similar, but their conditions less so. The wintry season had stripped the oak of its foliage and rendered it stark and twisted by exposing the tree's skeleton. Beautiful, but beaten. The car had been through every element of nature and yet her sleek black form was still intact. Almost perfect. A few tiny dents and barely perceptible scratches remained like badges of honor from past skirmishes.  
  
It was her owner that kept her that way. It was the mark of a partnership, one between man and object, lovingly maintained through thick and thin. When the man had no one, he had his car when he needed to reach someone. Without the man, the car would rust and all her precious history would be wasted, inevitably forgotten under time's ruthless march. They had bled together, he in red, she in black. Bumps and bruises, dents and flats, distress and blown carburetors. Memories that could not be scrubbed away with soap or wax and recovery that had healed more than just their broken bodies.  
  
He had ridden in the car several times now. He could respect its functionality— it was a machine, but it was also a carriage. A container with precious cargo that had nothing to do with the arsenal in the trunk. If inanimate objects could speak, he firmly believed the fondest of tones would be used. There would also be sarcasm and crassness, nonchalance and humility; all traits picked up from the one behind the wheel. It would be an engaging conversation. But cars could not talk. Any and all insight was won the hard way: the human way. Divine or no, he was not a prophet or seer.  
  
In the case of Dean Winchester, he oftentimes wished he was.  
  
The man in question had settled on the Impala's hood, stretched long and lean despite wearing a chunky leather jacket and errant grey scarf. His legs were denim-clad and crossed at the ankle. Chunks of snow still stuck to soles of his boots from his trek through the woods and bits of it had fallen to stick to the hood. With each exhale, a wisp of frozen breath puffed from between his lips. The day was at its end and he couldn't make out much else in the half-twilight. From inside the car he could make out faint strains of music —mostly guitar at the moment. He knew nothing of the 'bands' and 'rock stars' that Dean Winchester avowed by, but sometimes he did mark a level of enjoyment from their compositions. The wild sounds were oddly soothing in the press of silence created by the recent snow fall.  
  
 "Shit, it's friggin' Antarctic. Bobby, wouldja hurry up an' call before I lose an asscheek?" Dean said with a tapered groan, hooking his hands behind his head. A frown crumpled his brow and made his eyes narrow until they were nearly closed. A stranger would hear annoyance; in his ears, Dean's voice sounded hollow.  
  
Empty was the right word, but that was too bleak even for a day as cold as the present one.  
  
No Lisa. No Ben. No Sam. The latter remained unconscious, newly possessed by his long absent soul and with very little chance of revival. The mother and son were more or less out of the picture. Dean's brief acquaintanceship with vampirism had done irreversible damage when he'd gone to see the little family — his good bye had become something irredeemable. Worse so because Sam had known how to cure him and thus could have kept the relationship from ruin. But now Dean was alone. Him and the Impala, a return to the past. Back before the universe opened up a can of worms on the Winchester's front lawn.  
  
"Damn it." Dean muttered. His elbows folded and enclosed his ears from the chill. Dean drew up his knees until he'd planted his feet, braced and tensed as if he expected a werewolf to pop out of the snow. There was a six pack inside the Impala on the back seat, but for some reason it'd been left alone. Castiel knew that Dean regularly suppressed himself, all his thoughts and feelings, with alcohol. The effects of intoxication weren't unfamiliar to him; he had drank an entire liquor store one time for very similar reasons. That Dean wasn't boozing could only mean one thing and his stomach clutched with worry. Today was December 24th and tomorrow was Christmas.  
  
A year ago, Dean had celebrated it with Sam, prepared for it to be their last.  
  
There was every possibility of losing Sam this Christmas.  
  
"Damn it. Damn it..." Quiet, yet loud, not unlike hearing a gunshot fired in the distance. Castiel fastened onto the odd contradiction, letting himself be drawn into the rough tone. There was something else trying to claw its way to the surface in Dean's voice. Something powerful. Dean sounded hoarse, all gravel and hiss, the way he would after taking a double shot of whiskey. His body was coiled up tight inside the heavy winter wear, a spring ready to burst.  
  
"Damn it all to hell..." There was a crack this time, a hitch of disbelief manhandled by fury and sorrow. Dean's chest spasmed and he fought for breath.  
  
Castiel could stand to watch him struggle any longer. "Dean," he said quietly, stripping away his invisibility.  
  
Instantly, Dean jerked and rolled away, nearly falling off the side of the Impala in his haste. He scrambled and caught himself, eyes comically wide as he stared at the dark-haired angel. "Je— Jeez, Christ! Cas, you tryin' to give me a heart attack?" He gasped, shoving upright. Seated with a leg dangling over the side of the hood, Dean rubbed at his face. Castiel shuffled his feet in the snow, jaw tight against a swell of nameless concerns. His toes were cold from standing in the damp for so long, but the sensation was like an after thought. Such physical feelings were of little import; he was an angel. Temperature was a fact, not an imposition.  
  
When Dean's gaze swung up to his, Castiel managed a shrug. Body language was hard for him to understand, but he'd slowly picked up on a few of the basics. "My apologies. I did not mean to—"  
  
"—scare the ever living crap outta me? Yeah. Nice thought. Terrible timing. Can we try this again in, say, not now?" Dean interjected, venomous, the line returning between his brows as his face closed off with the abruptness of a thunder clap. The hard sarcasm forced Castiel to hesitate, his worry spiking. He swallowed, but the walls of his throat felt like sandpaper. He couldn't tell whether he was dehydrated or nervous: the result was in either case.  
  
Since he hadn't replied, Dean shook his head and flopped back down on the hood. Resuming his earlier pose, his mouth flexed into a discontent scowl. "Fine, do whatever. Ya showed for once: there must be a reason. Go on, tell me ya missed all my ass-kicking skills and need a Batman to your Robin." He huffed. "I mean, really, Cas, we call and call but ya only show when Chucky's crawled into bed with you. That's not how it works. We need you, you help us. You need us, we help you. Fifty-fifty makes a hundred last I checked."  
  
"I know and I am sorry." The automated response was done and over with before Castiel could bat an eye. It's emptiness sent a wave of unease through him and a heaviness dropped into his belly like acid and stone. Castiel's eyes briefly closed while he combated a new found unease. His skin felt tight, stretched and pinched all over. He couldn't repeat his past mistakes. He definitely couldn't leave without a single good word between them. Desperation coaxed an wobble into his voice and the words that followed tumbled out in a rush, "Dean, if it were possible I would be here at all times. I have tried to explain, but—"  
  
"—BUT nothin'." Dean's voice sliced through the stillness, anger with a side of pissed off. As if to accentuate the level his anger had risen to, he slapped a hand against one jean-clad thigh.  
  
Castiel froze, confusion wiping his face bare of all other expression. It fled seconds later, replaced by a well-known, well-worn regret he'd ignored time and time again. Turning away, Castiel pressed his hips against the side of the Impala, sliding his hands into his pockets. Dean's words bounced around inside his head, shattering every attempt he made to string together a response. Minutes ticked by and still Castiel couldn't find anything to say. Humans were so... difficult. Words meant so much to them. The right ones were of even greater value and Castiel only barely knew which ones to cast for. Flying to the moon seemed altogether an easier task than the one before him right now. Explain, to Dean? The urge to check on Dean seemed more and more ludicrous the longer the silence held.  
  
The problem rested in who they were and what they were to each other. They were the counter weights of a golden scale, in which perfect balance was needed to see eye to eye. Castiel was frustrated, perturbed by an odd sensation creeping up his spine. Trepidation—fear—doubt. Being unable to say what was on his mind created a dull pain in his chest. Throwing off Dean and his personal balance had become a new brand of sin. Likewise, he couldn't say what he needed to. He did not want to burden Dean with his lies, even if the cause he fronted required such sacrifice. To need to lie was abominable: there were only so many steps between angels and demons and lying shortened the walk even further.  
  
 There was, however, something greater throbbing inside his being. A thing he had come to identify as want. A human sensation. Needs he could handle; there was always need, be it in Heaven or Hell. When it came to 'wanting', however...  
  
Angels lived to serve, to place faith in the Father and follow what is Foretold. Without God, he was forced to fight so that what he believed in prevailed. His purpose was to safeguard that belief against all evil, no matter the means, no matter the repercussions. Nothing was of greater import or value.  
  
But he couldn't explain that to Dean. Not now. Their balance hovered dangerously close to chaos and Castiel dreaded the idea of tainting it further. Dean was, after all, the person he'd placed all his belief in, one hundred percent.  
  
He spoke quietly, drawn from his thoughts by Dean's annoyed sigh. "Things are not good. But—" he cut Dean off before he could speak, grinning faintly when he heard Dean mutter. Probably a comment concerning 'stupid freakin' angels'. He continued. "—but that is all. I have nothing to ask of you, Not today. I had thought..." Many, many things. Castiel's thoughts were jumping in every direction. All of them centered around finding Dean and apologizing. Earlier he had been over-quick to react, even quicker to turn his fears onto Dean. The state of Sam's soul had frightened him and he had lashed out with harsh, terror-stricken words. "I had thought that... with how Sam is... I... Bobby was getting worried."  
  
Castiel could almost _hear_ Dean thinking. He hoped that the quick excuse was suitable enough to slide by. This wasn't the time to probe undefined thoughts and feelings, let alone share them.  
  
Tilting his head back, Castiel eyed the clouds blanketing the sky. The wind had picked up and he could smell the cold as a type of sharpness against all his senses, a searing intensity nipping at his bones. With his eyes closed, Castiel could detect a shift in the weather, as if he had a barometer behind each eyelid. There was a promise of new snow to make the world pure again, white and whole for at least a short while. Only one trail marred the snow around them and Castiel absently wished to erase those lonely prints.  
  
"So. Um. This a house call? Checkin' to make sure I don't pull the plug? Well, don't worry. I'm tired, not depressed, so Bobby can call off the suicide watch." Dean replied with some amount of grumbling, scratching at the back of his head. Castiel didn't move and eventually he heard Dean sigh, "Listen. Sam's got his soul, so even if he... if things don't go right..." There was a pause. Castiel could almost picture what kind of look Dean was wearing— "I'm jus' tired. That's all. You can run back to Kansas and tell Auntie Em I'll click my heels when I'm good an' ready."  
  
Bobby Singer wasn't in Kansas and he didn't know anyone's Aunt named Em. Yet Castiel somehow got the gist of what Dean was saying. Craning back to look, he caught a glimpse as Dean covered his face and rubbed the skin of his cheeks against his palms. He wasn't prepared for when Dean suddenly stopped and looked up at him; Castiel jerked away, heart skittering in quick, distressing pulses beneath his ribcage. Had Dean seen through him? Seen the real reason he'd followed the Impala's tire tracks and stood watching for hours, just watching.  
  
Waiting. Wondering. Wanting.  
  
A low chuckle interrupted his panic. The Impala creaked a little and he heard rustling noises, the distinct, gritty sound of shifting fabric. Castiel didn't turn to see what Dean was up to and focused instead on steadying the rate of his vessel's heart. The dryness had crept up into his mouth and his tongue was a clumsy piece of stone as he fought to swallow.  
  
Without warning, something fluttered into view, cutting off the glow of a street light several yards away. A foreign grey swath was trying to blind him. He spun, ready to fight it off. The source, however, was anything but evil. Castiel only barely missed smashing foreheads with his attacker. _Dean_.  
  
He was close. So close. Castiel could clearly make out every scar, every freckle. It was too dark to tell, but Dean's irises were a bold shade of green. He stared and Dean stared back, their faces a two way window of confusion and surprise.  
  
"Whoa— hey. Take it easy. I'm not trying t'strangle you, doofus. It's a scarf." The beginnings of a grin twisted Dean's mouth. Castiel wondered how many times he'd glimpsed that same expression—wondered how often it'd been because of him. He lowered his hands, lifted in auto defense, and listened as Dean kept talking: "Ya know, scarves, what Grandma makes in knitting club. We wear 'em so we don't turn into frost giants? Yeah, okay. Dunno if you've noticed but it's winter here. I know y'er, uh, you and all, but you need to at least  act human outside of the command center." At Cas's throat, Dean drew the scarf into a lopsided knot. Castiel barely blinked, suddenly assaulted by odd thoughts. Lines like _'this is Dean's scarf'_ and _'is this the temperature of Dean's body'_ and _'Dean was wearing this'_.  
  
Castiel managed to clear his throat once Dean had finished. The latter sat back, admiring his handiwork with a childish gleam in his eyes. That was Dean, though. Forever yanking "the chain" that everyone else followed. One moment it was Dean, hunter, killer, avenger. Two seconds later there'd be the Dean that was Sam's brother, Bobby's sworn son and the unsung hero of a thankless world.  
  
"Thank you." Castiel murmured, gingerly touching the scarf resting around his neck. The material was softer than it looked, downy and woolen. He did not require it, but Dean had given it to him. A gesture of good will? Castiel was inclined to believe that: it was the most likely of explanations. That idea was cemented down as the wind picked up a notch, ruffling hair and clothing. The trees shivered and then Dean did, briefly, like the twitch of a cat's tail.  
  
"S'all good amigo. We've been giving you a lotta crap lately. Kinda easy to forget about the whole -" Dean indicated upward with a finger, glancing at the darkened sky. "- Heaven War I, thing. Or whatever number war this is for all you winged wonders." He shrugged at Castiel's stare and tipped backward, flopping back on his rear. The music filtering through the Impala's speakers switched up and moments later Castiel was intrigued to hear an acoustic rendition of Silent Night begin to play. Dean didn't give sign of noticing except for a soft huff and flick of short lashes. Castiel watched as breath slipped from his lips, a silvery trail that caught instantly on the breeze, transported away by an invisible hand. The color in Dean's cheeks fascinated him the most. Winter's grip had caught Dean in its sway, lowered his body temperature in minutes flat.  
  
The coloring of Dean's cheeks inspired in Castiel an urge he didn't know what to do with, not at first. The scarf had kept Dean warm, but now it was around his neck. Giving it back would break any number of (silly) human rules. Dean might not care so much, considering, but the vision of that grin tucked into the corner of Dean's mouth rose up in Castiel's mind. No. He wouldn't give the scarf back. The issue remained the same: Dean was cold. That was part of what he knew and the rest centered around how to contend with winter— as a human would.  
  
"Man... tomorrow's Christmas. Seems like yesterday Sam and I were toastin' eggnog and making peace with Doomsday. We never have real holidays, me and Sammy. Lotta things we didn't get. Never had homemade stuffin' before either. Heh--what I'd give for a nice big slice of apple pie, hot outta the oven. Tell ya what: Sam wakes up and we all scoot into town for a late holiday meal. Bobby'll drive so I can show ya what an Irish car bomb is. And... And shit! Cas, what're you doin'?"  
  
He cast his eyes over the scenery. The dimly lit abandoned park. Snow, only a foot or so deep, unspoiled in almost every direction. Above, a few flakes began to fall, illuminated in the only street lamp for miles. The city didn't exist for all he noticed it. Castiel drew a slow breath, blue eyes finishing their survey to rest on Dean's startled, bewildered face. He sat half-inclined on the windshield, his legs folded inward and crossed loosely at the ankles. His shins pressed into the back of Dean's leather coat. Dean had twisted around to gawk at him, eyes round and greener than the pines framing the open plot. "It is, as you say, winter. I may not feel the cold as you do, but I understand that it is unpleasant." He said, brows lifted up to crease his forehead.  
  
To his shock, Dean burst out laughing. The force of it shook the Impala a little, vibrated beneath his legs. Frowning faintly, Castiel wondered if he'd chosen the wrong way to return Dean's gesture. Before he could find the words to apologize, Dean sighed gustily. "Damn you're a strange angel. Fine. Cas. You win." Castiel didn't understand what it was he'd won -  
  
\- until Dean had the back of his head resting on his lap.  
  
They were silent for a long time. Minutes passed, followed by an hour or two. It was them and the radio, the clouds and the fat flakes of snow falling from the darkness. Numerous songs played and filled the silence the wind and rattling trees couldn't claim. Castiel's sat ruler straight, staring outward, occasionally slanting a glance to measure Dean's expressions. The elder Winchester drifted in and out of a doze-like state, sprawled across the length of the Impala's hood, arms draped over his hips, right knee bent up and the left tucked up under it. Sometimes there was a muffled sound of a car-horn from the direction of the city. Once, Castiel watched in rapt wonder as an owl swooped into the lamplight. It was huge and white, claws tucked in close to its body, wings held in a rigid lock until with one mighty surge it disappeared into the treeline. Dean missed the entire guest appearance, but Cas gazed in the direction it'd gone for some time afterward.  
  
"I hate the cold. Hate snow. Hate hunting in snow." Dean spoke suddenly, but so softly Cas thought at first that he was sleep talking. Craning over, Castiel waited, not breathing for several seconds. Dean's eyes opened a sliver, unfocused until they zeroed in on his face. He blinked and then closed them again. Castiel abruptly fought back a shiver that coasted along his spine and sang straight down through his toes. The constant breeze was suddenly cooler than before and he hunched closer.  
  
As if sensing his discomfort, Dean's shifted minutely and his voice started up again, quiet and husky. "Sam doesn't tho'. Kid built friggin' snow huts up 'till he was twelve and Dad was haulin' us around so that we never stopped long 'nuff for that stuff. Y'know, we haven't tried building a snow man before. Not a real Frosty, anyways, although I did make an epic snowcone man. He was lime and grape flavored - heh, he was "grime" flavored when I was done gettin' the head right. Looked like Yoda."  
  
Dean's snicker stole all of Castiel's attention. His focus narrowed, erasing all trace of the world outside of Dean and the Impala's hood. That was another Dean Thing. When the man spoke, when he wasn't joking around or casting insinuations, Dean's voice could dive inside and hook right behind the sternum. There was no escape, no ignoring, no forgetting. Castiel remembered what breathing was long after he needed to and gasped shakily. Dean snorted and reached back. A hand smacked Cas's knee, lightly. "Inhale, exhale buddy. We went over this didn't we?"  
  
They had. Right after Castiel had been shoved into a pool and required a hand getting back out.  
  
Swallowing slowly, Castiel felt the weight of his arms as he lifted them. Heavy, solid, somewhat clumsy in this form. His hands, however, were another story. When he touched the tips of Dean's hair, he marveled at their sensitivity. Their dexterity when he gently combed them through the dense brown strands. Dean kept his hair short and clean, minimal upkeep, less wear and tear during close encounters. But it was marvelously soft. He heard Dean's breath catch, faintly saw his body tense up. Nevertheless, Castiel continued. His fingertips traced shapes into Dean's scalp. Meaningless symbols, Enochian and otherwise. "Sam will wake up." For Dean, he would. Dean's faith and determination had turned the tides of greater things, let alone see to the well being of his brother.  
  
Beneath his touch, Dean nodded. Castiel stilled, realizing he'd touched something other than hair. An ear. Round, and cold. Dean's jaw was working in a strange way and Castiel thought it might be irritation. He withdrew his hands, but Dean grunted suddenly. "Dude, if y're going to give a head massage, put in a little more effort. Sheesh." There was no anger in Dean's voice. No irritation or aggravation. He sounded odd. Small. Uncertain of himself, yet Castiel heard a trace of what he took to be Dean's unspoken invitation. A tone that reached out and said that whatever Castiel's reasons were, it was okay.  
  
Castiel smiled to himself, just a little. His hands returned to their prior post and resumed absently circling through Dean's soft brown hair. The night continued. Snow dampened Castiel's hair and it soon hung low, framing his face in loose ringlets. Dean's face was still rosy colored, but his skin was warm wherever Castiel's fingers trailed. Ears, skull line, forehead. The radio announcer came on at one point and spoke the time, wishing everyone a happy holiday.  
  
Quietly, Castiel repeated the treasured phrase, "Merry Christmas Dean."  
  
One lid slowly pried open. A dark green eye peered up at him, blurry and sleepy. The hollow loneliness Castiel had come to expect, however, was gone. Dean's mouth twitched into a thin-lipped, inelegant grin. He inhaled deeply and his eye slid shut as he exhaled. "Yea, you too. Merry Christmas, Cas'."

**Author's Note:**

> Also, this work would not have been possible without having randomly glimpsed a very moving Destiel artwork on tumblr. 
> 
> You can see it here: http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lwjfqoeDDX1qmt6n1o1_500.jpg  
> Artist: http://lettiebobettie.tumblr.com/
> 
> Thanks to Shanhearts for finding the link. C:


End file.
